Bedshaped
by conchepcion
Summary: He dreams ..


**A/N: **No beta, just me being silly, and getting me head back in writing. September is a terrible month for me I'm afraid. Sorry about that.

* * *

His eyes are trained on her loopy handwriting, her hands with short nails gripping firmly at the pen, as she releases a sigh, "You should just let him move," she says, "If you're going to - complain – _say_," she adds hurriedly blushing, but he hears the hidden laugh, the implication, too.

She hasn't spoken for approximately ten minutes, making him grind to halt by the microscope, as he realises she's been considering what he'd told her an hour ago. He allows his gaze to be known now, blue eyes flickering in confusion over her face, but her lips are pursed, her own eyes drawn towards her papers.

She doesn't need to keep him company, yet she does, without word always settling across him, or lingering over his shoulder when he's made a discovery, whether related to cases or not. Her lips will be parted, they are rosy he has noted, and there's not a trace of lipstick on them, or any sticky substance. He makes a mental note of this, though doesn't use it for any compliments, neither does he try to compliment her braided hair, "It's just, he was so lonely, you know. Everyone's lonely sometimes..."

He doesn't know if she's implying he's lonely, or if it is she, automatically he scoffs. "I'm not," he says hurriedly, now her eyes rush up to meet him, and he feels himself regretting his words.

Her stare is brazen, "Ok," she says slowly, blinking at him, before she licks at her lips, "Crisps?" she says standing up, but before he gets to reply she leaves.

His eyes linger on her back, when the door swings shut behind her. Sherlock allows himself an intake of breath, a furrow at his brow, as he swiftly changes his slide, hoping to divert his mind. He is not lonely, though, he knew John was. Of course, he was, and it isn't exactly news that John would be inclined to take a girlfriend…possibly a wife. Nothing can be the same, he supposes, his eyes fixed on Molly who returns with her hand jammed into a packet of crisps.

She hasn't brought one for him, but she doesn't apologise for it – though he sees her waver a second, her head turning slightly towards the door, until she settles herself down again. Only her fingertips are soaked in the salt, as she pops them into her mouth. Occasionally licking at her fingertips that disappear into the packet rustling loudly at every dip from her hand.

He nosily releases breath through his nostrils, signalling his annoyance, but she continues until every bit of salt is licked dry off her fingertips, "That isn't particularly hygienic, Molly," he says after minutes of silence.

She laughs, taking to demonstratively rinse her hands behind him, shaking them over the wash, before drying them off with a paper-towel that she throws in the waste-bin.

Brown eyes meet his, and he realises he's staring.

Her brows crease at him worriedly; he opens his mouth briefly, though instead of saying something he rashly stands up. His unexpected movement makes her tumble backwards in surprise, almost losing her footing. Gripping at her forearms, he steadies her, though soon his hand is on her lower back, and she stares at him in alarm.

His stomach jerks at the warmth beneath his fingertips, though he does not release her – applying pressure to her back, causing her to lean forward, towards him.

Every inch of her face is apparent to him, not hidden by a microscope, or taken in by the corner of his eye, and he sees the residue of salt on the corner of her mouth.

His breathing gets constricted, his pulse high, his heart beating firmly, as he sees her dilated pupils – her eyes lingering on his lips…

He releases her, taking a step back, gathering his coat mutedly, as he leaves without throwing a look back at her.

Sherlock does not need to see her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, or her astonished face. Those images unwillingly flicker to mind, amidst the drive back to Baker Street, and he finds himself locking them away.

No, he is not lonely.

* * *

He never recalls dreams, never thinks of them, as anything particular, for they blend in with cases – or are blissfully blank canvases. Now, however, there is only discomfort to be found, in what he assumes, is his _loneliness. _He laughs to himself - alone, holding the violin at his side, as he surveys the darkened room – he is _not_ lonely.

Baker Street is far emptier these days, like he told her, the quietness of it, a dull trap for him, though he does not hear a droll complaint in the corner over his playing, or the rustling of newspapers. He does however hear the occasional female laughter come from upstairs, causing him to bang shut his bedroom door, and then after that, those visits are infrequent too.

John does indeed take cases with usual gusto, it is not _his _absence that annoys Sherlock, but he suspects it is the fact that he finds himself constantly striding towards Bart's for some remedy._ She_ obliges constantly, nattering on, until he is tired, and leaves, but even those chats have turned scarce. There is absence in her presence now, one he does not know, or even begin to comprehend, but he assumes, like he does, that it is the loneliness in her. The loneliness she deduced in him, though he is not lonely, not until his head is upon his pillow.

He does not require much sleep, never has, though he finds that it makes the time pass quicker, or so he reasons. Before, with his mind constantly on the edge, he would stay awake, overturning every single bit of interesting article in the flat for his perusal, but there is only ennui in that now.

He shuts his eyes hesitantly, feeling this unease overtake him, and he opens them up again to the ray of sunlight. His shutters are always down, he knows this, trying to reason with himself, as he hears the laughter coming from his side. The laughter increases, tickling at his ear, and he turns his head towards _her _bemused, like always. She looks lovely in this light, unlike the glaring light of the lab.

She stretches out lazily in his bed, her warmth seeping through his sheets, touching his side with her flushed skin. Biting at her lip, her arms outstretched over her head, he feels her shift, the duvet slipping towards her waist, and he finds his eyes turn towards her bare chest. A pair of soft pink nipples at his disposal ones that he doesn't hesitate to take in his mouth, perking up at his attention, while she squirms underneath his body.

He wakes up at that, hand rubbing over his face, feeling his cock strain, but he ignores it – pushing it away mentally. Sherlock realises, when he wrenches off the covers that it is only four in the morning, but he doesn't dare to attempt sleep any longer.

There is no warmth on _her_ side of the bed, when his palm lingers on the sheets.

* * *

She is huffing around him today, clearly annoyed by his silence, as he is with hers. Her anguish is evident by the way she seems to be constantly re-reading her work, eyes flickering to him every now and then, until she puts aside her pen, "Are you ok?"

"Molly," he says in annoyance, allowing his brow to rise.

She's biting hard at her lips, seeming to consider her words for once, and he feels himself roll his eyes, "You look tired."

He ignores her comment, almost leaving, though he's glued to the spot when she loosens her hair, leaving it on her shoulders, giving to laugh, "Though, I think I might be a bit too." He's relieved when she absently talks, yawning amidst her nonsense on about her semi-abusive cat Toby.

"Yes, I know, Molly," he says, secretly relieved when she dismisses this comment, and continues to talk unhurriedly, her fingers slipping through her hair.

* * *

He has her between his sheets repeatedly, his breath mingled with her sweet one. Biting at her neck, he feels her arch underneath him, pulling him closer with her legs behind his back, as she surrenders to him without hesitation.

Rocking against her, their hands tangle together, and he loses himself within her, she cries at their resolution. He wipes those tears away, collecting them in his palm, and she says they aren't tears of sadness. She doesn't release his hand, mumbling about her cat, but he wakes up alone, swallowing deeply.

* * *

She's sniffing loudly when she enters. A failed date, he assumes, seeing it in her posture, and her avid reluctance in meeting his eyes, as she settles down before him. He does not know how to handle it, or what to say, when she keeps on sniffing, her sleeve at her nose and eyes, "It's OK," she says, as if that clarifies, "It's just a cold."

Molly doesn't lie; she misdirects him, leaves the room, or pretends. He feels himself tearing his gaze away from the microscope, "Molly," he says, softening his voice, but she promptly shakes her head, infuriating him, "He's…an idiot," he says reluctantly.

She snorts loudly, taking to shake with laughter, and bears the same look on her face, that she has when his head is between her thighs. He turns away from her, adjusting his face, though he notes that she's silent, "He is," she says with a small voice, taking to laugh some more, prodding only slightly at her eye.

* * *

He sweeps her hair away from her face, feeling the suppleness between his fingertips, as she examines his face – touching upon the corner of his mouth, forcing him to smile. She attempts to induce laughter from him; the administrations are not overtly sexual, even with her naked flesh on top of him, as they are like any morning spent between lovers, "You'll be gone," he says with a dry throat, feeling her lips brush against his, as her palm presses against his chest. His heart thumping obsessively underneath her hand, "No," she says.

* * *

John has a quarrel with Mary. He's reeking of alcohol when he steps into the flat, falling into his chair, as Sherlock's just sorted out his scarf neatly around his neck, "Where – you going?"

"Call her," he says, settling the landline on the table firmly in front of him.

"You –_ you_ – are giving me advice?" John laughs, "On my bloody love – life."

He only repeats himself, causing John to turn quiet, as he reaches for the dial with shaky hands.

"They've had a bit of domestic, then," she says settling across him, trying not to look interested, though he sees her over-theatrical shrug.

"Yes," he replies hoping to throw her off the discussion of – _love_.

He finds his throat is drier in her presence, his palms are sweaty, and he is certainly coming down with something, though he knows it is the mingle of the dreams, the mere brushes of _reality_ he does not own.

"Is he ok?"

"If you mean drunk, then, yes," he says with a sigh, and she drops the subject, but she seems to drop any subject. It's only her hurried writing that fills the room, until his phone goes off.

_Thanks - J_

He slips the phone back into his pocket, meeting her gaze, as she's staring at him expectantly, her mouth turning upwards, "That's good, then," she says, and he almost asks what gave it away, but he doesn't. He's afraid that she might have found him out, after all, that she might read the tremble in his hands, when he accidentally brushes against her.

* * *

Her smile is sad, her hands do not reach for him anymore, pulling away fiercely, and he does not force her to him. He waits – but she turns cold – her back towards him. Just like he always assumed. His hand reaches towards her shoulder, but the body underneath it, is stiff. Dread fills him when he turns her around to him, and her eyes are blank – unblinking – there is nothing there.

She is gone.

He wakes up, tearing on his clothes, his eyes briefly on the clock, as he sprints out of Baker Street his heart in his throat. He feels like he's breaking when he finally reaches her flat, an unreasonable hour he knows, when his fist pounds at the door. There is loud meowing to be heard from the inside, a padding of woolly socks on the floor, and he almost turns when he hears her hesitant voice through the wooden door, "Hello?" she says.

"It's – me," his voice breaks, he hears it clearly, doesn't try to adjust it, or correct himself, too late, _too late_, but no - it isn't too late.

The door creaks open, and she looks at a loss.

"Sherlock," she says with her brows connected, taking a step back as he strides inside, hands at his side, "What's wrong?" she says, when he can't find the words, slowly closing the door.

He pulls her towards him, with her flushing underneath his touch immediately, "I'm sorry," he says, repeating these words, with his forehead leaning on hers, "I'm sorry."

He wakes, almost allowing his eyes to shut again, but there is mild stirring at his side. His eyes are thrown open, her hand on his chest, and he lifts at it in bewilderment for a second, touching, caressing the softness of her hand.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, a low unfamiliar hum, and he turns his head to find her squinting at him, "Go to sleep," she says in annoyance, clearly not overjoyed at being awaken, but she is grinning.

"Fine," he says trying to sound displeased, tugging her closer to him, making her shriek in the morning light, forcing her small shape on top of him. She wriggles on top of him for a few seconds, moaning about him being a terrible pillow, before drifting off to sleep. He feels her weight on top of him, the pressure of her hands, of her breasts, and his much lighter heart.

No, he is not lonely.


End file.
